Red Corn Poppy
by jayisuncouth
Summary: Killing Bella, as justified as it was, brings unexpected ramifications. AU. Very dark.
1. Esme

Disclaimer: **Stephenie Meyer** owns Twilight and its characters. I own a Ford Escort '96.

PTB's **littlevic** and** nowforruin, **thank you for the beta work!

**Beige** - my private beta, love you hard!

**MujerN **and **Vantastic **- I wouldn't have written this if it weren't for your support.

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Esme Cullen

"Family comes first. I never felt guilty before. Why now?" The guilt has been tormenting me for a while.

"The girl has grown on me, that's probably why." I answer my unspoken question out loud.

I stop and kick a pebble into a stream. It belongs there. I look up at the sky, and it's a wonderful sunny day. The birds are chirping and the light breeze is rustling the leaves. The warmth of the sun feels comforting on my hard skin.

The family is in the house.

I'm walking by the stream because I didn't feel like participating in their game's final act.

I'm beginning to doubt who I am, and what we are. The guilt is creeping in, and the feeling is nauseating.

Every now and then, when my children get bored, they bet on things or people. They like to play psychological games. They like social experiments. They like to destroy things. It entertains them.

We have a different sense of time, and even though days sometimes feel like hours, forever is a long time. The boredom gets to us.

He met her at school. She's a nice girl; kind, bright, maybe average-looking, but certainly has a wonderful, charming personality. She is utterly in love with him.

He is doing everything to convince her that he is head over heels with her.

Alice and Rosalie find it incredibly amusing. She's opened her soul to them. In return, they've given her advice and make-overs and have done all they could to assure her he's never been in love like this before.

It's all a game to them.

Jasper's been manipulating her feelings so often I wonder how she's not gone crazy by now. And Emmett's been intimidating her every chance he gets. Actually, he's the only one who's been honest with her, in a way.

The poor child is at the house right now and Edward has her in his room, showing her his CD collection and books – something an average seventeen year old boy would not do. What an average seventeen year old would do is have her in his bed by now.

His refusal to have sex with her should have given her a hint, but the girl is blind with infatuation, even though her instincts probably keep telling her something is off. Edward refuses to sleep with her, because it's too dangerous, and he'd probably kill her, thus ending the game too soon.

He's a good brother. He wants to entertain his siblings for as long as he can, even if it's at his own expense.

I hugged her before I left the house. It was my way of saying goodbye.

When she first saw him, she was immediately taken with him; she told me so herself. Edward hardly noticed her, until he caught a whiff of her scent. Her future was sealed in that moment. She is his singer, and he can't wait to sink his teeth into her neck.

This is what makes it fun for them. His brothers and sisters want to see how long he'll last. They like to see him squirm when she's around – they like to see him fight the thirst.

This is the first time he's run into his singer. I'm sure there'll be more to come. But it's going to take a while. They don't just show up on every corner. Sometimes it takes centuries for your specific singer to be born, and even then, who's to say that in your singer's short life you'll come across them? It has to be at the right time and at the right place. Or, should I say at the wrong time and at the wrong place?

"Oh, again with the guilt!" I grumble, annoyed with myself.

I step into a meadow, and it looks like thick dark red paint was splashed over a green canvas. The sight is truly magnificent. I sit in the middle of it and pluck a flower. I lift it to my face and breathe deeply, the scent too faint for humans to smell. The petals touch my face like the most erotic kisses, and I shiver at the gentle touch.

The red petals look glazed, and a droplet of water hides next to the flower's dark center.

And then suddenly a short scream, muffled by the distance and my son's hand, is carried on the soft warm spring breeze.

Everything is peaceful in the next second. Even the birds are quiet now. Only the stubborn wind is intent on disturbing this sad moment of silence.

I know it's over now. I get up and start walking home feeling lighter and somehow relieved. I pick more flowers as I walk. They'll make a nice arrangement for my seldom used bedroom.

I decide Red Corn Poppy is the flower that'll always remind me of this girl, Bella Swan.

"Yes, it will do," I say to myself.

I wonder what the next singer will be like. Maybe this time a redhead girl? Or a blonde? Maybe taller? Or maybe it will be a man? That should bring some excitement for the children. I can already imagine Jasper and Emmett teasing Edward for the change in his sexual preference.

But it doesn't matter. What matters is that I get over this feeling of guilt. We do our best to kill humans as rarely as we can. We do only what we must, because we are who we are. It's in our essence to hunt them, and the singers, you just can't pass up.

"You cannot!" I loudly confirm to myself and to the birds, shaking my head from side to side.

It's as simple as that. We do our best to move from what we are to what we want to be. We do our best to build our moral grounds, to create our very own ethics of dealing with the world we inhabit. We are unchangeable, permanent. We are superior, and we are reasonable.

The only time we succumb to what we are is when that primeval pull gets too strong for us to fight it, and the strength of it crashes us against the hard, unyielding essence of nature. It is in that moment that our fragile moral ideals crumble into dust.

This is why I lift my eyes up to the skies, and start walking home. My family needs me.

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Let me know what you think. Thank you.

* * *

Red Corn Poppy has been nominated for an award!

No, seriously, I'm not kidding.

See here: twificpics . com / vampawards / ? page_id=198 

Everyone who nominated gets good karma... Oh, what the heck, those of you who didn't get some too.

Sending out good vibes: ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


	2. Choice in Madness

**Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I don't. I make no profit by posting my gibberish.**

**Neri, Van, Tina** - my support system! Without you, I wouldn't be writing. Thank you!

**PTB's beta's** have proven to be of great help again! So, thank you **blahblahblah and**** DreaC =)**

**I think I know where I'm going with this. Emphasis on _think_. **

**If in doubt, as in "she's not really dead, is she?", please check the rating and genre of this story.  
**

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Esme Cullen

I come home to an empty house. The mouth-watering scent of human blood greets me like an old friend.

It has been a while since it last soothed my throat and quenched my thirst. The smell lingers in the air and I can almost taste the girl's blood on my tongue. I catch my eyelids slowly descending and my throat vibrating with a soft hum. I snap out of it and shake my head, berating myself.

The children are gone, most likely to dispose of the body. They were very careful about luring Bella in. No one is aware that Edward befriended her, or that Alice and Rosalie spent time with her. She was supposed to go to Seattle today, at least that is what she told her father.

The plan is to make it look like another case of a missing teen.

She was a child of divorced parents. A move from Phoenix to the rainy, depressing north simply aided in her self-destruction– a believable story. And if that doesn't work, people will come up with their own ideas about what happened; they always do.

I cannot not feel for Charlie, though. Edward says he loves his daughter immensely, but that he's the silent type. He doesn't verbalize his emotions. My guess is that he is going to be a silent sufferer, kind of like me in my human days. I worry that he may become suicidal after he learns about his daughter's _disappearance_.

It's amazing how one small action creates a chain reaction; some tragic, some wonderful. Maybe a parent will spend more time with a child as a result of Bella's disappearance. Maybe a child will grow closer to a parent for the same reason.

"Stop rationalizing," I murmur for the millionth time today as I rub my neck. The only thing that justifies this child's death is the fact that she was unfortunate enough to be Edward's singer, and this, if anyone's, is nature's fault. It is as simple as that.

I walk upstairs with heavy steps. I am weary of this day. To be honest, I am tired of my existence. But I know sleep will never come.

I put the poppies in a vase on my night stand. They are in a beautiful red-and-green disarray. Some are taller than others. They look charmingly messy. The blood-red silently screams about the horror that transpired in my home. I lower my head in shame.

There's some blood on my cotton dress. On my way home, I drained an elk. I must wash the dress.

I take it off and toss it on the bedroom floor. "_First, I shower, then clean the house_," I think to myself.

I walk in the bathroom. The glass walls allow sunlight to enter and my skin glows. I touch the hard shell of my body and I know that it is a lie. I feel so weak inside.

I walk in the shower and turn on the scalding water. I rub the extravagant, overpriced emulsion over my arms and chest, belly and legs.

It lathers quickly and I devotedly scrub my skin in hopes it will give me the feeling of a new beginning.

I hear Carlisle's car coming up the driveway. I wait for him under the hot stream.

I want his arms around me.

I hear his steps and I know he has smelled the blood.

"Carlisle, come here!"

He enters the bathroom after a few moments and starts undressing. I turn to watch him. There is sadness in his eyes, although he's offering me a smile.

"I'm glad to see you. How are you?" he asks.

"I've been better."

He kisses my forehead. "Everything will be okay. We will be okay."

I want to believe him. The length of my existence supports his words. Everything passes; nothing is forever, and I have witnessed it so many times. Still, I find little comfort in this knowledge.

He reaches for shampoo and tells me to turn around. His hands give me comfort and take away some of my weariness. He rubs my scalp, massages my neck, and kisses my shoulder.

After he's done with my hair, I wash his body.

Fresh and warm from the shower, he carries me to the bedroom.

We lie on our sides, facing each other. The sunlight plays on my skin again, kissing me warmly on my back. Looking over my husband's shoulder, I see the flowers screaming at me.

"Do we move away? What do we do now?" I ask in fear.

"No, we'll stay until after the graduation, then we can move. We don't want to draw attention," he answers. "Did Edward go with them? Where is he?"

Of course he worries about Edward. He will never admit it, but I know Edward, the tortured soul, the brooding boy, he brought to this existence first, is his favourite.

"I think so. It's not like they left me a note."

"You weren't here then when he..."

"No, I couldn't make myself stay. I went for a walk."

"Are you all right?"

"I told you, I've been better." I close my eyes, regretting my harsh tone the moment the words leave my mouth.

"I'm sorry. I know this isn't easy for you either."

"I don't know what it is about this child, but I can't help feeling this sadness about her death."

Our eyes meet as he says the last word, and I know what he means.

We have strict rules we abide by in our everyday existence. But rules that go against our nature are hard to keep, and sometimes we cannot follow them. I know this. I accept this.

Our family have encountered several singers before and we have killed them. We knew that it was wrong to take them away from their families and loved ones, but we made peace with it. Their time was up as soon as they crossed our path, and that was not, nor will it ever be our fault.

"I think I know exactly how you feel. She's grown on me. I think I miss her. I feel like I could have even loved her if circumstances had been different. Does that make any sense?"

"Yes." He's silent for a moment.

"I remember her heart thumping erratically when Edward carried her over that mud puddle. Why did he do that anyway? The child had already fallen in it, face down." We laugh in unison.

"He wiped the mud off her face so gingerly."

My husband, smilingly, repeats the darling child's words,"Stop it, Edward. I'm embarrassed as it is."

"Sweet child," he almost whispers.

My eyes, a moment ago resting behind my husband's shoulder on the red-and-green reminder of Bella, travel to his and in a cold angry voice, I say, "No, we can't think like that. She was just a singer," I turn my back to my husband, "not a child."

Edward is the child, my sweet child.

Anything for my child.

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	3. Enveloping Us

**Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer.**

PTB's **hezpixie** and **solareclipses** – thank you for your beta work. It feels like you sweated blood over this text. Sorry about that.

All the remaining mistakes are mine, and I apologize for them.

**Beige**, **Neri** and **Van** – I wouldn't be writing if it weren't for your support and beta work... I probably wouldn't be sane without you either. But I digress.

**White Stripes** kick a**! Lyrics for **We Are Gonna Be Friends **that I used in this chapter are theirs. **Not mine**. I wish they were though.

Here goes beating a story into the ground...

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Gore is being thrown around liberally. Heads are rolling, literally, across a dark cemetery. A tall leggy blonde, comes out of nowhere, running. She is screaming in that annoying girly high pitched damsel-in-distress way and the crowd bursts out in laughter.

We are watching _Zombies on the Prowl: Heads Will Roll_.

Popcorn is flying everywhere. We're throwing it at an annoying group of teens who obviously didn't come to watch the movie.

Teenagers are constantly in heat, boys especially. It is funny to watch the boys' carefully planned strategies come into action.

It would make it so much easier if someone had informed them that most girls want the same as they do. But then it wouldn't be this amusing for me to watch.

Jasper tosses a handful of popcorn at them and Carlisle shouts, "Show some respect!"

We burst into laughter.

As the ridiculous scenes roll one after the other, Rosalie and I are having a sarcasm-fueled discussion, Alice and Emmett are being their regular heckling selves.

Jasper and Carlisle are watching with rapt attention, often hissing at us to shut up.

We are happy.

It's one of those precious days when you're with the right people, in the right place, at the right time, and life is good.

Soon enough the movie ends and credits are rolling. We stand up to put our coats on.

"Doctor Cullen!" a middle age man calls.

Carlisle waves hello and tells us to meet him outside.

Still picking popcorn out of each other's hair, we are on our way out of the theater when a girl approaches Alice and asks about Bella.

Alice tells her that she hasn't seen her in a few days, but has been meaning to call her.

And this is when we begin to weave our web of lies.

The girl with the sad eyes lowers her head and says,"But Alice, don't you know? Bella's been missing for the past two days."

The masks at hand come to rest on all of our faces.

Worry.

Interest.

"What's going on?" Emmett asks loud enough for the girl to hear. She glances at him.

"I don't know," Jasper answers shrugging his shoulders.

"I'll tell you later," Alice keeps up with the pretenses.

The play is set in motion, a horror movie that no one but us knows about, continues, ironically, in a theater. I smirk at the thought.

We meet Carlisle outside. It's cold, and we must get into the car as soon as possible. Our breath doesn't form into a mist in such cold weather, and people tend to notice it.

In the car, he tells that his former patient, Mr. Smith, has been asking about Bella, and whether there have been any teenage bodies found in the area recently.

Mr. Smith is a naturally curious fellow, but still, I wonder why he would be asking Carlisle about Bella.

He's not related to her, and he's not a cop, or a journalist. Perhaps he just enjoys gossip? Or maybe he's just morbid? This town lacks excitement; a case of a missing teen will surely bring some. I wish Edward was here; he'd be able to answer my questions.

He's probably waiting for us at home.

The rest of the drive is silent, but pleasant.

As the car glides down the road, approaching our home, I feel like a small child being tucked into bed. Warmth and love are envoloping me.

As we enter the house, I hear Edward strumming a guitar. That's odd. I didn't know he'd taken up guitar.

Alice, Jasper, Rosalie and Emmett decide to go on a quick hunt, meaning they won't be back until the morning. Their quick hunts often mean entering a different state, or sometimes Canada.

Carlisle and I lay on the couch, his head on a pillow between my legs. He's reading _Reader's Digest_, while I'm reading Neruda.

As boring as eternity may be, I often catch myself postponing things until I have more time. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but I wanted to read Neruda a second time for a while now, and haven't had the chance. This evening, I finally do.

A repetitive tune steals my attention away from the beautiful verses. Edward is playing something that is almost... sad.

Uninvited, a memory flashes through my mind and I gasp as pain pierces my heart. My vision turns blurry.

Carlisle asks if everything's okay.

"What's wrong with Edward?" I ask, as if I expect him to have a diagnosis. He looks at me, worried.

"There's something wrong?"

"The melody; it's sad, don't you think?"

He listens for a moment. "Esme, he's just playing the guitar."

I nod, mechanically, convincing myself that Edward means nothing by this. He wouldn't hurt me intentionally.

Trying to appease myself, I take the book in my hands, searching for the right page.

_F__all is here, hear the yell  
Back to school, ring the bell_

Edward starts singing in a low voice, which is strange for someone who is on a blood high.

_Brand new shoes, walking blues  
Climb the fence, books and pens  
I can tell that we are gonna be friends_

What is going on?**  
**

_Walk with me, Suzy Lee  
Through the park, by the tree  
We will rest upon the ground  
And look at all the bugs we've found _

_Then safely walk to school  
Without a sound_

I can feel tension growing in my chest. The feeling that has always haunted me is creeping in slowly. Anxiety accompanied nostalgia.

_Well here we are, no one else _

_We walked to school all by ourselves  
There's dirt on our uniforms  
From chasing all the ants and worms  
We clean up and now it's time to learn_

Images of young carefree children invade my thoughts. I am too weak to fight them off.

A sickening feeling of a part of me being ripped out, a wish to die... It's all coming back to me.

My angel, perfect and small, bundled up in his blanket never got the taste of happiness he deserved.

Oh, God, I wanted it so badly for him!

_Numbers, letters, learn to spell  
Nouns, and books, and show and tell  
At playtime we will throw the ball  
Back to class, through the hall  
Teacher marks our height against the wall_

I get up to pace. The memories of my baby boy are flooding my mind. My precious, fragile little boy.

My angel, dead in my arms.

"Stop it!" I shout. Carlisle's embrace can't comfort me now.

_And we don't notice any time pass  
We don't notice anything_

During my pregnancy, I used to daydream about my child.

About my child playing in dirt, making mud cakes.

About my angel climbing trees.

I would imagine him going to school someday, wearing a little uniform.

I imagined the two of us sitting at the dinner table at night, struggling with math homework, his little feet swinging above the floor.

I wanted my baby to have a happy childhood and I wanted to be a Mom. That's all I ever wanted.

And Edward knows this.

_We sit side by side in every class  
Teacher thinks that I sound funny  
But she likes the way you sing_

His voice is sweet and velvety, both gentle and menacing.

He keeps on singing even though he hears my every painful thought, even though he sees my every memory.

I feel rage building up inside me.

_Tonight I'll dream while I'm in bed  
When silly thoughts go through my head  
About the bugs and alphabet  
And when I wake tomorrow I'll bet  
That you and I will walk together again _

He is doing this on purpose. He wants me hurting.

Blinded by rage, I tear away from Carlisle's embrace and run to Edward's bedroom. I push the door open with all my strength and anger, and it flies off the hinges, pieces of wood scattering across the room, hitting Edward's precious cashmere sweater. I wish the splinters could pierce his skin, I wish he could feel pain, I wish his heart could bleed as much as mine is bleeding right now.

I stand rigid, my eyes set on Edward's stone cold expression. His posture is as stiff as mine. His eyes, the only window to his mind, those red, gleaming, hateful eyes, are calling me to a duel. We stare at each other, my once golden child ready to tear me to pieces.

What is worse, I want to kill him, too.

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	4. Rage

**Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight.**

**Tina**, **Van**, **Neri **– my reanimation team/support system, thank you!

**Flibbertigidget** & **onlybythenight1**, **PTB's betas**, thank you for your help with correcting the mistakes in this text.

Any authors reading this? Go google **Project Team Beta**. I highly recommend.

* * *

I quickly glance at Carlisle. He is standing still as a statue with fear written all over his face. The atmosphere is filled with raw violence ready to erupt.

Suddenly a billowed curtain, an innocent spectator, an unknowing instigator, slashes through the air, and the cloud of tension explodes into a torrent of rage.

Edward is pushing me into a wall as my hands come up to cover his face. I want to rip his skin open. His arms around my neck are trying to snap my spine. I twist my head and bite his arm. I expect him to scream, but he doesn't.

Instead, he pushes me across the room, and in a second I am again face to face with this rabid animal. His fingers are in my hair, pulling my head to one side. He wants to bite my head off.

Through the thick fog of resolute, murderous anger, Carlisle's pleading seeps into my wants us to stop.

He's trying to separate us. Arms are mingling. We're pushing and pulling, biting and hissing. Except for Carlisle, he's just trying to set us apart. Why? Edward hurt me, provoked me, taunted me with my dearest memories.

"You don't mess with me! You hear, Edward, you hear!"

"How could you? You call yourself a mother!" He spits the words out, laughing cynically.

"How could I what?" Screaming words at him, spewing this madness in his face, it's liberating. I need to scream. I need to get it out.

Standing up, he growls at me, "Why the hell did you do that?"

"Do what, Edward?"

"Kill her."

"The Singer?" I say, astonished.

He stares back, eyes black. They should be red.

"Yes, the Singer."

"You played games with the child; you killed her. Those are all things you wanted to do, Edward. I had nothing to do with that..."

"Why didn't you stop me?" he interrupts me.

"The child was a Singer!"

"She was a child. It wasn't right—she was only seventeen. She could have had a life, and she should have…"

"Are you preaching to me, Edward? Don't get involved into this Carlisle." I point my finger in his direction just as he's about to interrupt us. Right here, right now, while my snake tongue is ready, I am going to deal with Edward.

"She was a child!" he shouts and falls to his knees. Carlisle tries to help him up. But now is my turn to stand like a statue.

"Get off your knees, Edward, get up!" I hiss, outraged at this pathetic display. Is it sadness I see in him? Or guilt?

But he coils. He lies on the floor, his hands covering his face. "I should kill you for this," he's mumbling, "all of you, all of you, all of you..."

Carlisle sits next to him, patting his hair — his precious first born. I turn and leave the room.

The others will be here soon, and I don't have the energy to explain this to them. I don't even know what just happened.

I want my bed. I want to cover myself with blankets and bury my head beneath soft pillows. I want to hide away and sob.

My baby. How dare he touch my memories, play with them like that.

I'm lying under the cotton and damask and feathers, breathing them bring back the memories of the softest skin... the sweet smell of a newborn baby. Vague, elusive, precious memories.

I can feel the bed around me move. My resident psychiatrists, Carlisle and Jasper, have come to help me. Trying to lift my mood is ridiculous. Am I not allowed to be angry? From underneath the bed linen and pillows, I shout at them to leave.

Eventually they give up and leave the room. Leave me alone. That's all I need.

All day long I can hear them walk around the house, talking worriedly, trying to figure out what had happened.

Edward is still lying on the floor. Apparently he hasn't moved an inch either. Two catatonic family members is the high of our day. I just need a minute, an hour, or maybe a year to get my bearing.

The breathing doesn't calm me, but it takes my focus off my hurt and Edward's foul behaviour. It's angry breathing. I'm just containing myself. Otherwise, I'd go back to that room and beat him into dust.

I hope he is reading my mind right now.

* * *

The sun has risen and set several times, and now I am thirsty. I need to hunt. I am calmer, though. I am nowhere near forgiving him, but I want to know why; I want to know what's wrong with him. The mother in me is reappearing, and I need to nurture and hold my vampiric child, even though he has hurt me badly.

Jasper appears in my room and, as if Edward hasn't heard him already, whispers, "He's grieving."

"Grieving the ch..." I correct myself. "The Singer's death?"

"Yes. I think so."

"What do I do?" I ask him, completely out of my depth. This has never happened before. I know Edward is sensitive. Maybe he had read her mind? Maybe he's hiding something from us?

"Why do you think he's grieving?"

Jasper sits on the floor by my bed, runs a hand through his hair, and turns to look at me. "I'm not sure exactly. It's as if he has developed feelings for her. Or better, the memory of her. And since he took it out on you, maybe it is you who should try to speak to him?" He ends the sentence delicately, tactfully, pleadingly almost.

"What has Alice said to this?"

"She hasn't had any visions yet. It worries me." His eyes, cast downwards now, hide his true feelings from me.

Emmett and Rose come inside the room and both sit on my bed. Emmett hugs me tightly.

"Are you feeling better now?" he asks, searching my eyes. He smiles softly, trying to evoke a hint of joy in me. He's my source of comfort — always has been.

"I am, honey."

He kisses my forehead and smiles widely. "How about we go huntin'?"

I smile at him, for him, and hug him. "Sounds good," I say into his shoulder.

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